


The Cosmos Speak to Me

by Dahria



Category: Among Us (Video Game)
Genre: AU for making things up as I go, Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien/Human Relationships, Aliens, All Colors Are Here!, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Maybe not all.., Meh, Never played the game, Spare me!, What if we held hands in medbay...hahaha just kidding!...unless?, Writer's bug disease, but I mean...impostors so, ish?, no beta we die like crewmates, not too bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dahria/pseuds/Dahria
Summary: "Awfully spacious up here, isn't it?"She doesn't know who is startled more when the words escape her lips.
Relationships: Brown/Cyan (Among Us), Crewmate & Impostor (Among Us), Crewmate/Impostor (Among Us)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 132





	1. Prologue

He reeks.

Suit splattered by the rustic liquid.

His head whips side to side. Frenzied. Scouting for any unwanted witness to the act.

And that’s when they meet, cyan pinning brown.

 **Brown**. Sweet, sweet Brown. Her crewmate, her—no! No… _Alien_. _Murderer_.

Not Brown. Not _her_ Brown anymore.

Cyan hears a crunch, wet and guttural, a glimpse of a pink appendage disappearing out of view.

And God. _God._

She slips to the floor in a defeated heap.

Caramel colored eyes never leaving her own, craze melting to an alarmingly placid cool.

Brown straightens up from his hunched form.

Turns fully as the maw spanning his midsection smacks its jowls shut, smoothing out into the Skeld-issued uniform it is.

Isn’t. _Wasn’t._

Cyan really wants to laugh.

**Clack, Clack, Clack.**

Copper boots scuff faintly against cold metal.

**Clack, Clack, Clack.**

The sound damning. Weight of it sitting heavy in her chest.

**Clack, Clack, Clack.**

And she finds she doesn’t wonder if she will die.

**Clack, Clack, Clack.**

Tastes the certainty in the air. Recollects distantly.

**Clack, Clack.**

_Any therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls._

**Clack** _._

_It tolls for thee._

Brown towers over Cyan’s prone form.

Waiting for the catalyst in the silence, cocking his head to the side, sprout atop his head bobbing with the movement.

Cute. That was cute at one point.

It’s almost enough to drive her over the edge.

_“Always the cool, collected Cyan.”_

But then she feels hands on her cheeks, soft, smearing streams of red in their wake.

The odd lilt in his voice-- hushed, unhurried.

“Cyan, are you unwell?”

And this time she really does laugh.

Throws her head back as the world spirals from beneath her feet.

Embraces the fall for what it is.

Hoping _it_ will be enough to kill her instead.

. . .

**There is one impostor among us.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know where this came from, but trying my hand either way *shrug* Will try to update as often as I can, depending. Writing format only for prologue's sake.


	2. Gaze Long Enough Into the Abyss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Abyss also gazes into you.

Eisyl Shaw. She rubs a calloused thumb over her name, the newly minted ID card, and the implications of what she’s about to do shake her like a rebirth, doing away with one name and slipping into another. _‘Cyan’_. She’s Cyan for the remainder of this job, even though she still freezes like a first gen dial up before she recognizes she’s being addressed. Grimacing, she pockets the flimsy plastic in a huff.

Cyan would like to think herself pragmatic. Logical. Afterall, she is an engineer. Plasi-steel and calculations are what she breathes. She’s the one that helps builds these things in the first place. Studies their skeleton, stringing together tendons and ligaments until they’re the imposing bulk of a deathtrap that awaits her now. _Ugh_. A headshake later and she finds herself pacing the terminal lobby all over again. She has faith in her hand. She has to. So as newly assigned chief engineer for the journey, she should have faith in this spaceship. Spaceship…Oh don’t even _mention_ the fact that she has to take a shuttle just to get _to_ said spaceship.

_And have you forgotten that its taking off. With you. Off planet. You’ve never been anywhere but planet-side how could you be so rash you--!_

A heave cuts off her next placation on the statically proven data that spaceships were less likely to crash than a commercial Skystriker. Another choked wheezing, and it has her swiveling to see a brown spacesuit half swallowed by a receptacle a stone’s throw away. And she cringes, a tad too contented than she should be that at least she isn’t the only one ridden with pre-flight nerves. She tip-toes over, just about to tap their exposed back in askance when the body suddenly bolts up, heaving another series of ragged breaths with the action.

Cyan takes a startled step back, questioning at the last minute if her concern was unwarranted to begin with, chastising herself for sticking her nose where it might not belong. But they—he—just stands there, breathless, before a telling pink dusts freckled cheeks at the sight of an audience.

“Uh, you saw all a’that, didn’t cha?” He scratches an unruly head of chocolate curls, “It’s fine it’s fine I got it no sweat no pain no gain I’m an adult this is nothing just taking the same mission for the millionth time you’d think a scientist would have a spirit of adventure and exploration and looking for new life and…”

Caramel hues regard Cyan behind thick-rimmed glasses, the darker tan of his skin failing to hide how his blush deepens. Cyan vaguely wonders if the color would melt to honey in the sun. That she’d like to see the vibrance of them if they did. An identical pink covers the pale of her ocean-kissed cheeks, and she brushes back turquoise strands of a pixie cut out of her face.

“S-sorry. Rude to stare.” He adjusts his glasses, starts gathering up a nearby duffle bag and slinging it over his shoulder, almost toppling over with the force of the movement, then grabs at a nearby suitcase.

“The name’s MacCarthy. Levi MacCarthy, if you’re wondering. Which you probably weren’t.” He chuckles awkwardly. “ ‘Brown’ for now. And… Cyan? Looks like we have similar mission scopes. You know I—”

_“NOW BOARDING: **UAA 2-7-0-3**. REPEAT NOW BOARDING: **UAA 2-7-0-3**.”_

“ _Ohmygodohmygodohmygod_ that’s me gotta go bye!” he stumbles into a poor attempt of a run, only to stop abruptly a ways ahead as he turns to face her again. “Nice to meet you, Cyan!”

And then he’s off. Gone before she has a chance to say the same, aborted wave hanging in the air like a limp noodle. Her lip quirks up nonetheless, weaving through the sparse crowd of the graveyard hours to her own departure gate, musing how she did not speak a word, yet she enjoyed the brief interaction as if she had. What an amusing man.

. . .

She would have overlooked the encounter if not for the sudden static of the cockpit’s receiver.

_“Uh, Control to **Scuttlebug UAA** **2-7-0-4** Departure six … confirm all crewmates onboard.” _A thick drawl that makes her think of younger days, fumbling around rusty old ‘strikers and chasing mutts through wheat fields. She throws a glance to Red, her assigned captain for the foreseeable future as they’re finishing up their pre-flight checklist. He peruses a list before answering.

“ _UAA 2-7-0-4 Departure six_ , all souls present, over.”

There’s a pregnant silence before the speakers come alive again, professionalism belying amusement. _“ **2-7-0-4** , looks like we picked up a straggler with your name on it. Sending over updated report now— how copy?”_

Red tussles auburn locks, muttering a few choice words as his data pad pings with the revision.

“Copy that. Holding short launchpad H-0-6 East. _UAA 2-7-0-4_.”

_“Comes with the business **2-7-0-4**. There’s always that one. **UAA 2-7-0-4** cleared for departure after pickup. ETA 2400 dock to **The Skeld**. Advise switch: radio frequency 2-2-8-7.5.”_

“ _2-7-0-4_ cleared after pickup, ETA 2400 hours, frequency 2-2-8-7.5. G’night Control.”

_“Godspeed. Goodnight **2-7-0-4**.”_

. . .

Cyan blames it on the surreal thought: a suspension in nothingness. How exposed their craft is when one truly thinks about it, at the mercy of a void that is not as quiet and beguiling as it would have you believe. When awe had finally worn off and she had to fight the shiver that threatened to rock her spine at no longer being grounded, (Zero G could only fascinate her for so long) she no sooner strapped up to her seat like a kindergartner on their first day of school. Ah, how she took for granted such simple delights as a functioning ozone layer and expecting things to fall down, not up, praying the artificial gravity of _The Skeld_ could bring back some level of normalcy. _Yep. Kansas has officially departed._ Cyan can feel the chatter of teeth coming on, and that’s when she knows she’s in desperate need of a distraction. She isn’t one for small talk. But the soft murmurs among the crew spark an envy for the dry babble she never thought she could have. Before she knows it—

“Awfully spacious up here, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t know who is startled more when the words escape her lips.

Levi MacCarthy. ‘Brown’. Form drastically subdued from the animated spasms that had looked second nature. He doesn’t turn from the small porthole, hands splayed neatly on either thigh, but his shoulders hike up, apparently uninclined to engage. Effectively unresponsive. Cyan wonders if the nerves finally choked him into muteness, or if her voice is just that much of a nuisance. She picks at the goggles around her neck.

“S-space— I mean! Not here. _In here_ ,” she gestures at the shared capsule, even though he couldn’t see. “Up here—out there. A lot of…space...” Maybe if she opened the airlock to get some non-existent air she could speed up her death for the grave she just dug. Taking everyone else with her would be a mercy really, no bystanders or reminders to the universe of any of this. It wasn’t even a joke. What was she going for anyway? Maybe there was a specialty tombstone service out here: ‘Here lies the lamest words you’d ever hear in your life I tell ya h’what’.

“Your hands are shaking.”

Cyan freezes. Looks down at her lap. Clenching her folded hands at the realization. One, he speaks. And two…was he making fun of her? But she presumes the negative. Brown’s head stays glued to the porthole. How long has he been straining his neck at that angle anyway? _Isn’t that uncomfortable?_ And she can’t help but to once again compare the Brown she knew briefly from the one currently to her right. Flat. No intonation. Like he was reading off a string of numbers from a phonebook. How did he even know— without looking? She replies lamely, words lacking any real fight to them.

“Yes. I can see that.”

Another pause.

“Why.”

Why? Is this coming from the same person who, not two hours ago, was puking his guts out to high heaven? Really. She heaves a sigh. “Space. _The Final Frontier_. The _final_ place I’d like to be. Something goes wrong and it’s just you and the oxygen depletion up here. Need I say more?”

Brown stays still. Passive to her plight. Seemingly more engrossed with the stars than the sinking ship of a conversation. And Cyan sits defeated, hunkers down for the long haul this is turning out to be. She laments not storing her data pad on her person until she’s interrupted by a shuffling to her side.

“It is.”

She glances before doing a double take, mildly stunned that he’s actually looking at her this time, an unanticipated flip in her stomach at the prospect of seeing caramel hues again. But what was once warm of embarrassment and endearing awkwardness now seem…dead. Soulless. He gazes at her with all the void of the blackness they are careening through, and it’s transfixing, struggling to not look away, yet at the same time feeling herself sinking deeper and deeper until caramel is all she knows. Maybe aquamarine is all he does too. She’s struck at the dichotomy, remembering the words of his familiarity with space travel. Anxiety can’t drag a person to this state, can it? She notes belatedly that his glasses are nowhere to be found.

Cyan makes to question him, but she stops short at the opening of his mouth. Jaw working in an odd motion, like there’s some crick in it incapable of being dispelled. Brown inclines his head upward in what she assumes is thought, rubbing a gloved hand over the stiff and uncooperative joint. Then, without warning, his head snaps down as quick as a whip.

She’s suddenly overcome by the intensity radiating from his eyes. Something in the back of her mind screaming at her that from this point onwards, there are only two options: _fight_ or _flight_. She stamps the feeling down in favor of rubbing her arm idly, praising the spacesuit for hiding the goosebumps so well.

“You smell of fear. If you die here, that is it. If you don’t, that is it. Either way, you are still going to die. Your fear is unfounded.”

She bristles. Bewilderment and unease swirling into one messy emotion, prompting her to answer with a bit more bite than necessary. “I’m aware of my own mortality. I just like the thought of dying on a nice beach house as opposed to having my internal organs imploding because of a faulty airlock.”

“The choice is not up to you.”

Her face sets into a glower. No, it isn’t. She cannot control when and where she will die. But maybe if she had stayed planet-side that latter chance would have been significantly lower. Like. Zero, lower. Maybe if she was brave enough to be there for the last living family she had. No matter if that meant having to watch their life whittle away. The fact that they don’t even remember her notwithstanding. Cyan could’ve gotten a job that paid more without having to leave. She’s virtually a mechanic, and there are always things to fix. But she can’t fix him, devoid of wire and steel. Rather chance a god forsaken piece of metal, spiraling off into the cradle of uncertainty. Not even able to bring herself to a farewell, having grabbed her bags in a haste, already speeding off before they could even notice the presence of a warm body at their door. Who is she really saving, being up here?

She slumps back against her seat, clutching the straps of her seat with a ferocity set deep in her bones.

“I know.”

Brown’s gaze lingers on her, like he wants to say something more, but then Red beckons to them all as he starts a preliminary mission debrief, and when she spares him a final glance, he’s already back to gazing out the porthole.

. . .

One fitful nap away has her view filled full of straw.

Cyan blinks slowly, bleary-eyed as a hand moves to grip the straws—hat—out from its free floating, a cheerful voice speaking up from her left.

“Welcome back to the land of the living!”

But all she can do is stare, dazed at the straw hat sitting innocently atop the helmet currently secured around a masculine face. _A space…a space cowboy?_ Was she still dreaming?

Said cowboy seems to notice her fixation, tipping the hat with the flick of a finger, flashing her a grin. “Always choose a hat you don’t think you wont need.”

“Ah~ I say it everyday.” And a second person makes themselves known, leaning into view from his left. She sports a pink flower on her helmet.

Cyan gives them a funny look, flexing her fingers in a small wave. “Hi. Cyan.”

“Oh do a I hear a little south district there? _Cute~_ ” he sing songs in his own accent she lacks the geography to be able to place. “Yellow here. Obvi.”

“And Pink. Ready and rrrraring to go!”

“Ad Astra!”

“To the stars!”

“Up, up--!”

Yellow gets cut off by an amused cough, Cyan stifling a chuckle. “You guys know each other.”

“ _Twins~ ”_ they beam in sync. And she can kinda see it. If she looks pass the differing color palette, blonde and bubble-gum pop. Fraternal, but like two peas in a space pod no less.

“Might wanna get your helmet on.” Yellow nods towards the window pane of the open-view cockpit. “Right on top o’er now.”

And they are. Close enough that their speed had dipped drastically, crawling along at a snails pace, undoubtedly no more than a couple minutes away from docking. It’s huge compared to their little shuttle. _Beautiful._ Everything she never wanted and more.

She fastens her helmet, air buzzing with anticipation. Or apprehension. Anyone’s pick. Throwing a quick onceover at her 11 other crewmates, lingering a little longer on yellow and pink as they exchange excited chatter and references she’s sure she’d never get. She makes the rounds before finally landing on caramel that seem to have already been fixated on her. A frown fights for a chance to take hold of her face. She thought he said it was rude to stare.

“Your helmet, “ she taps briefly at hers. “You’re gonna need it soon.”

“Helmet…” Brown trails off, and Cyan can’t keep quiet anymore, a feeling squirming in her gut, chewing at her insides like stale gum. She brushes a featherlight touch against his gloved hand before she can abort the action.

“Brown, are you oka--"

_“BRACE YOURSELF FOR—"_

Speakers screech into dead static. Impact throwing them in hard revolutions. 

Spinning and spinning and spinning and she swears if any amount of G-force training keeps her from blacking out the time would be _now_. Hyperventilating. Doesn’t know who’s hand she’s no doubt crushing in a death grip. But there’s certainty in one thing.

A gaping hole in the side of the _Skuttlebug_ , and she’s face to face with the void again.

The real one.

Stars twinkling in shameless innocence.

Half her crew gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back


	3. Fata Morgana (1)

In space, no one can hear you scream.

She’d be damned if that stops her.

Cyan _screeches_. Rages like a banshee against whatever powers that be that led her up to this point. Stirring awake to an ocean of debris. The one island of salvation right in front of her. More than out of reach. Drifting away. No means to get there. Afloat on her own ramshackle piece of flotsam. And she has to think to herself if this is divine punishment. If she’s done enough evil in all her life to deserve this. Because she’d like to send a strongly worded letter clearly outlining in alphabetical order everything she’s tried to do right from birth to present and it’d be essay worthy by the time she was done. If life threw her one, and she pitched back with a purpose, could she really be held accountable? Cyan sniffs, blinks back the wetness in her eyes as she flexes her fingers, and unexpectedly, feels a mirrored action in return. She looks down, then at connected hands, trailing up the limb until she’s visor to visor. And the tears spill.

“This…” Cyan dredges up whatever’s left of her vocal chords.

“ ** _This_**.” Retches the word in all the ugly rawness of her soul. Insistent for him to finally get it. That he was wrong. That he _is_ wrong. _Do you see this? Do you understand **now**?_ How ‘ _unfounded’_ was her fear now! Oh, but at least he found his helmet. Ha. Good for him. He can suffocate later instead of present, all with some extra seconds to spare. What a steal!

Brown smooths a thumb over the vice-grip of a hand atop his, the movement slow and deliberate. Coaxing. Bowed head focused in his ministrations. Cyan eases up the pressure, closing her eyes in silent apology for what undoubtedly must hurt despite the lack of complaint. Feeling as Brown maneuvers the digits until he has their fingers properly threaded. And she sighs with the breath of a creature on their last, anchoring herself to the contact, entertaining the thought of cyan and brown without the hindrance of a barrier between them. What it would be like to feel the warmth of his hand in hers.

Aquamarine open to see caramel observing the connection, frame relaxed, as if it were simply another beautiful day in the neighborhood, balanced in the annals of the universe. He brings them up to his visor to get a better look at them, and Cyan...Cyan can almost picture that. The both of them. Far, far away from this moment. Maybe Earth. She heard they have actual beaches there, not the discount pools and dumped up sand they have on Tethys IX. Perhaps, they could have gotten to know each other _,_ sharing some measure of camaraderie. Some tropical fruit on the side would be nice too. The fantasy cuts off however when she sees him make the move to…to…

Cyan’s words quiver, small and strained. “What are you doing?”

The strap that held him in place floats harmlessly, empty of the body that should be there.

“The ship. I am going to it.”

And Cyan feels her blood run cold, mind splashed awake at the absurdity of the words.

She gives his hand a little shake, before adding her other to the pair. I-It wasn’t so bad. Dying. If it were the two of them. She didn’t want to die. But there exists something more terrifying in being alone. Taking her last breaths alone. True, she was no stranger to solitude. Yet that loneliness would not be the same here—adrift in the abyss. The dark would consume her. Ravish her until it finally claimed her, the last blips of her heartbeat a swan song to its eager ears and willing jaws. So no. That loneliness is alien. One she does not know, and one she does not wish to know. Cyan wets her lips, fervent for him to see the hard truth.

“H-How. _How?_ ” _The Skeld_ looms in the distance, and she knows not to be deceived. It’s nowhere near them. Probably already a mile away by now. At least. And getting there, should she really have to spell it out. Their one life raft, now mangled and strewn apart around them. She takes in the sight again, really this time, and at seeing more wreckage than there should be, makes the connection of the perpetrator to their tragedy. A collision with a larger shuttle. Sabotage? Mutiny? You couldn’t pay her to care, having one foot in her imminent grave. Watching the cookie crumb trail leading up to the… But he couldn’t mean…

“You only got one oar in the water if you think that’s gonna work. We. Are. In. Space. One jump here and you’d just drift off course. But let’s say you do get there. I’m supposing you have the keys to the front door, hm? Or knock? Open sesame? There’d be no way in for you.”

Brown studies the threefold of their hands, as if trying to put together a puzzle he does not have all the pieces to solve, a slight furrow creasing the otherwise smooth contours of his face. The glare of the system’s sun reflects like a halo off his helmet.

“I will live.”

“Brown…L-Levi…” Cyan’s grip tightens. “ ‘The choice is not up to you’. You said that.”

“No. But it is there, and I must be there.”

“You’ll either die here or on the way! It doesn’t make a difference!” _Just stay with me. Please._

He’s lost it. Lunatic. A complete doctorate in theoretical insanity. Thinks if he believes hard enough it’s gotta make it happen. And what a perfect world that would be, huh? Everybody and their gumdrop pickled hearts, singing praises to their fantasies. Willing them into existence out of their want. Their eyes lock then, the worrying between his brows easing back into a calm. And aquamarine…aquamarine meet honey. Stupid, stupid honey.

“Whatever will be, will be.”

Stupid and crazy and cracked and completely off his rocker and giving her hope.

Goddammit he’s giving her hope.

Brown angles himself, getting ready to jump.

“Wait!” Cyan’s mind shifts into gear, the method to this special brand of madness. Attention flitting around at any and everything in sight. There’s less people than she last remembers seeing. Three left. Yellow MIA. And Cyan tries not to linger on the twinge at that. They have _minutes_ and she can’t fret over what’s already out of her hand and there has to be something— _something—_

She pats down the waist of her utility belt. “Brown. Grab the seat. Hold on to me.” Releasing the straps on her own seat, using a multitool to shear and strip, typing off ends until she has them connected by a metaphorical thread. And then she looks to her remaining crew, three forms sitting in bated silence, waiting for her next move. That twinge churns into a whole other monster.

 _“Yer gonna hafta learn, Eisyl,” he squeezed her shoulder. “Ta do raa’ight ain’t o’lways mean ta do good.”_ A flickering O2 level warns her to make it quick.

Cyan gestures for Brown to follow. And picks. Makes sure they’re truly unconscious first. Basic courtesy. They deserved that. Sliding the tinted visor down, covering the view of their face. She knows ‘I’m sorry’ would never be enough. Her crocodile tears inspiring no one. So Cyan steels her nerves. And cuts loose Lime. Unholstering their life support, her hands loosing no time, working on a prayer. _Come on come on come on_. Calculations run through her head a mile a minute. Loosening. Shedding. Tightening scraps. Overloading safety measures. _Max pressure_. _We need max pressure_. And then she has it. One jerry rig of a thruster. And one hell of a leap of faith before them.

A fizzled crackling makes itself known, and for a second her heart stops. Breath hitching quiet. Waiting for the stabbing accusation to come. She hadn’t remembered Brown. That there was another conscience at play here. She would not argue on the point of justice. Or that she was morally superior in any meaning of the phrase. But condemnation…condemnation could come later, couldn’t it?

The voice though is feminine, and makes no such scathing inquiries.

“W-wha…what happened?” _Pink._

Cyan would very much like to ask the same, and if it is too late to ask to be excused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda short chapter sorry. Im busy again x_x that vacation was over too soon. Was gonna wait but I thought I might as well split the chapter cause I at least wanted to have something weekly going on but c'est la vie. Brown pov in the beginning next chap proooobably? Still working the kinks. But seriously thanks for the kudos and interest shown here! Hope I don't disappoint and til next update


	4. Fata Morgana (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stardate = not current time, but it's not the whole chapter. I just didn't want a whole block of italics and couldn't come up with a better name. Got it? Got it. Let's go!

_ Stardate Entries, 21XX  _

__

A coffee tanned hand plants itself on smooth glass. And it is as if a final sealing had occurred. An inevitability. A dwindling of days commencing with the one gesture.

The man sports a nervous grin. Wholly enraptured by the specimen in his possession. Awed to be in this moment, the culmination of childhood passions and whimsical aspirations. A drive that he shares with the rest of man. Life; this enigma that has been, and hopefully, always will be. An enigma that inspires intrigue of the unknown. The unknown that stirs questions. Questions that demand answers. This demand is man’s nature. This voracious hunger is man’s nature.

It’s clear. How they have yearned to crawl. To walk. To run. To fly. And it has never been enough. (The yearning is never enough. When will it be enough.) They have bridged the limitless sky with the boundless universe. That “somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known”. And perhaps, that will be man’s downfall some day. That they will know. And wish they never had. Oh, but mortality is a hell of a drug. Wanting to feel. Needing to feel it all. They must accomplish much with little, their days amounting to nothing but a fleeting wisp in time. It’ll be the death of them. Scraping at the ashes of ephemeral endeavors. Suckling the blood from brazen lips in an intoxicated haze. But today, he thinks nothing of the crash. (Runs like the rest, rides the high.)

The man has never seen anything like it. Could have never dreamed the magnitude of such a discovery. And to think! To _be_ the discoverer. He slides his hand around the compacted containment unit, something of a large reinforced jar, watching as the material shadows like a mouse to the piper. _Curious_ , he muses, with no small amount of glee. Heat affinity? Or maybe sensitive to movement? _Gosh_ , what will he call it?

A mass of black ooze, undulating in languid motions over itself. Morphing in ways so utterly unnatural. Viscous like molasses for a moment. Then spongy. To gelatin. Until it takes on form. Sinewy tendrils wrapping under another, weaving and connecting into taught, intricate structures. Bulging. Sheening in strength. So much so that he always fears the glass will break—

But then the composition relaxes, and the cycle starts again. He lifts the container into his hands, rattling an uneven table in the process. _So very curious!_ All the while, pale, crudely spherical spots dot across the membrane. Sparse in some areas. Clustered in others. Some stationary. Others shrinking and resizing in memorizing patterns across its form. _Like stars._ He’s completely taken in by the trance. Feeling as if he is gazing into the very soul of the cosmos.

“—own.”

“Brown!”

“Y-yea huh—AH!” The container barely manages to avoid contact with the ground, a stiff grunt revealing the true weight of the object.

Brown hugs it close, like an especially fragile newborn.

“C-c-commander White! What brings you—uh—to this neck of the woods? Or I guess it would be this side of the range? Though technically the proper topographical terminology is—”

“ _Brown_.” White grinds, voice like the crunch of gravel. Leveling the man with the stare of an underpaid babysitter. “The hell’re you still doing out here? Got a call waitin’ for ya up in the Rigs, and I’ve been all over the place lookin’ for yer brown behind.” He gestures with his head, “Top chihuahuas getting restless, and I’m not your guys’ pet gopher. Get to it.”

“Er-- right! Sorry. Of course. Anything for— a-anything for you? Um…” Brown straightens, adjusting the jar less awkwardly in his arms. “It’s…it’s been an honor working with you, sir.”

White huffs with the air of an irritable beast.

“Don’t get soft on me boy. We’re not dying, and you still got a couple weeks left.”

He adds as an afterthought, “And don’t make me have’ta come find you again. God knows I have enough headaches to keep track of.”

Familiar words. He says them not for the first, and definitely, not for the last time. How much does it say that White can’t even expend the effort to keep the scowl on his face. A routine he realized long ago that he had accidentally encouraged in the wide-eyed little runt. Brown at least has the decency to look apologetic. Like every other time.

White shakes his head with the sigh only a parent could master before lumbering off, starting the trek back in the direction he came.

The weather on the dig site is getting bad. Greying sky taking a turn for the dark, heavy cloud cover promising unforgiving torrents. Brown flinches at a vicious streak of light, followed moments later by deep murmurs. Only a matter of time before the ‘Big Speak’ sputters on, halting all outdoor operations. A cutting wind sings through rock formations protruding from the earth, what little vegetation that exists quivering in their exposure. The small encampment would surely be worse for wear come tomorrow.

“Rover’s leaving with or without you!” White throws over a shoulder.

“Coming!” Brown startles.

Gingerly, he places the jar into a transport pod. Hesitating, before enabling the temperature regulator, simulating the cavity of the thing’s excavation. Single digits have it rigid. Negative, and the light show shrivels into nonexistence.

A troubled emotion passes over the man’s face. Gnawing at chapped lips, wincing as he reopens a raw cut in the process. Bad habit. A tongue licks at the split.

The man doesn’t like the thought of possible torture. Isn’t sure of sentience. If it is even considered ‘alive’ by current definitions. Astrobiology presents a whole new can of worms for the term. And there will always be opinions on both sides of the board. He’s sure though that this discovery still falls in his field. Life. Its physiology too expressive—organic—to be anything but. But this stands a ground zero finding. Danger level not known. And so precautions take precedence over anything else. Even…even well being. Besides, it had survived for this long, hadn’t it? Numerous creatures display specialized hibernation. A harmless adaption.

A sweaty hand pushes at thick glasses, before closing the case. Science. All in the name of science. He has been given the privilege to study it, already as good as stationed to POLUS base laboratory. Capturing. Tagging. Dissecting. Missions like these were not unfamiliar to him, and knowing he has respect for these specimens allows him to work without guilt. This should be no different, really. To advance, there must be sacrifices.

For when has the chaste pursuit of knowledge ever brought evil upon a man?

. . .

Owlish eyes observe the ensuing exchange. Soaking in the interaction with rapturous intrigue. The pink one awakes. Thrashes about like sick prey. And even though it is full from its last meal— ** _hunger-chill-bite_** —the flailing is no less appetizing. Torso shivering at the prospect, soft pulps of meat sliding effortlessly passed needle-point ivories. It drags a twitching hand along the eager seam. The one that smelled of fear— ** _c Yann_** —attempts to soothe pink. That they will return for the rest. Find the one called yellow. That they must leave immediately if they are to make it in time, attaching pink to the duo’s makeshift lifeline. But pink one is inconsolable. Whimpering. Liquid leaking freely from reddened orifices.

“W-we can’t make it we don’t have enough oxy—!”

“Shut it.” A baring of dull canines. “And you might.”

**_Curious._ **

The trio jumps. An inebriated bird of a takeoff. And the creature is left with its thoughts.

It knows. The same way it knows the falseness of its form. The beating in its chest. The steady rise and fall of breath. Its walk. Its talk. All leaning heavily on a crutch. Phantom movements of its assimilated body. Yes, it knows. These. These are not the same as it. These are _other_. Does not need _other_ to get where it needs to be. Does not need _other_ to fulfill a purpose in any form of the word. But more than anything, it knows.

_Other_ does not belong here.

And like all things, the dissent starts in form of a question. **_Why._ **Its memory is blank. And the body it has strewn together supplies nothing of use.

**_WHY._ **

It must know. Has to know. Can’t _not_ know. Yes. It must eat. Puncture through supple flesh. Adding _others’_ stimulating warmth to its body mass. Grow stronger. Fiercer. Survive. It does not question The Hunger. To question The Hunger is to question the state of being. A pointless waste of energy. Eat to live or starve to die. It _is_ , and there is nothing else to it.

But there is another hunger. Equally as ravenous. Self-serving. It must learn. Observe _other_. Camouflage in plain sight, for this is imperative to the hunt. That it is the type of predator that lulls the feeble into a false sense of security.

And when it knows. When it has deceived. Then it may feast. The Hunger will quiet. The yearning will quiet. This which it cannot physically ingest. _Other_ will be a sacrifice for its knowledge. And it will move unto more. It feels it in the slick of its innards, this purpose. Cannot deviate. Should not deviate. It knows what _other_ is not.

(It starts with a question)

But what is _other_.

**_So very curious_. **So the creature must be ‘Brown’, for only then will it understand. Strange how _other_ designates this way. Looking the same despite the varying colorations. Those repeat either way. Having seen at least seven other pinks besides this current one. Maybe _other’s_ sense of smell is bad. Not being able to differentiate without the inept labels. Do they also not see the same way it does, then. And what are these things _other_ creates. This body that it puppets offers much to analyze on the matter. Experiences not its own. Data it is still trying to sift through. Make sense of. Like…

It follows the flimsy thread connecting to the body in front of it.

This _other_ — _eyes of the clearest sky_ —and it blinks at the thought. Unbidden words. Emerging from… It searches through alien memories for the two’s encounter again, a brief thing, and it does not know what to make of what was evoked.

Then before, when cyan one had connected limbs with it. How easy it would have been to squeeze the member into a bloody mush. How simple— this casual mutilation. The fragility confounded it. And when it had decided to satisfy its musings, another feeler was added to the pair. And without warning, snapshots of a previous life flashed before its vision. Of fingers fitting perfectly together. Skies of different shades. Fields both barren and in bloom. Seasons passing. A… it—it didn’t know. It doesn’t know. Simply… _Togetherness_ , an emotion whispers along the creature’s mind.

_Other_ must die. _Other_ must not be allowed to thrive. But. These strange and curious ways displayed. They call to it. It must know it must know it must _understand_.

A hand makes its way to a tan helmet. Pupils contracted. As if lost in a trance. Jaw clenched. Like it takes physical effort in keeping it that way. And Pink makes the mistake to shift in that moment, just to see how their third party is doing, immediately regretting the action. Caught. Deer in headlights. Brain screaming _flightflightflight_ but there’s nowhere to _run_. Eyes wide. Mouth quivering open, unable to form the words. She pats at Cyan’s arm. Slow. Then frantic.

There is silence. But it hears everything all at once. The two in front of it looking so. Loud. Naïve. Guileless. Pink one’s fear agitates it more. And if it weren’t for the vacuum of space, the fact that it can’t actually smell the stink of sweat, Pink would already be half the person she is. The hand slides in view of its face.

Cyan grabs their tentative lifeline with a free hand, pulling Brown closer despite a whine from Pink. They’re coming in for another jump. And she needs them all together to keep up the good momentum. She can’t spare the nerves to handle Pink’s distress, barely taking captive of her own. And seeing Brown—don’t tell her he’s breaking down _now_. Now of all times! Looking as if he's ready to curl in on himself. Whatever happened to ‘I will live’ ? She sets her face. Willing him to look at her. Trying to emulate all the confidence she passionately does not feel. If he breaks, so will she. And if no one survives, who’ll complain to upper management then? Confidence falls into a wry grimace. No, they can’t have that, can they.

Brown doesn’t look up. But that’s ok. He’ll be ok.

She turns forward, hooking her arm with his. Three pairs of feet planting and disembarking almost in the instant. Leaping closer to salvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: thinking I know exactly how this chapter was gonna go  
> This chapter: are you sure about that?  
> Thoughts? Thoughts? I know mine. Writing is hard :( but is fun ;L I didn't even plan that whole flashback thing. It just. Happened. Im getting to realize that's how a lot of things are gonna happen now. But how was it? I have PTSD with flashback sequences (that giant wall of italics--and just seeing the word Flashback?? I can't be the only one) cause they deviate, just a stigma, even if I do like what they delve into. But I feel this one helps? I'll only do it if it helps.   
> Also: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aiKYfTWirIA gave me the idea of the jar. I like the thought that if imposters go camo, then its akin to that? I'll figure it out, but I love cephalapods :D  
> And thanks man, I never did something on this scale before. Im more of a poetry person so this is really novel in some ways, and Im already dreading a part in the next chapter. But. Cry now, laugh later I guess.  
> Again, love all you beautiful ppl here for the ride! bye o/


	5. Fata Morgana (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update game weak, I know. But life-uh-finds a way...

It’s like falling.

There was a time of twelve year old Cyan. Always drawing the short stick, trouble only a flick of a finger away. And when sticky fingers got the best of her, snatching some high grade tech from the wrong person having her face to face with an Enforcer, stun rifle cocked at the ready. Well. There was only one thing to do. Tripping through the first door she saw. Feet pounding up a stairway spiral. Flying past those last few steps and wrenching open the only escape in sight. Only to skid to a stop when it hit her. The cold sweat of understanding. Standing amidst the glow of the cityscape, blinding lights a hazy halo over the night.

A roof _._

She had peered over the edge, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, a thirty foot drop the only thing between her and freedom. One foot skirted closer to madness, the other ready to back away to the sane, the familiar. Weighing. Deliberating. But the rapid clanging of metal on metal was her decider. The moment when one fear had overridden the other. Body moving before the mind even registered the action. And just. Letting go.

The difference is immediate.

Understand. There’s falling. And then there’s _the fall_. Falling is having faith in one thing, that no matter in piece or pieces, you’ll always make it down. You’ll be grounded again. This certainty— gravity is certainty. Yes, it’s _like_ falling. But here—here in the sandbox of creation, you _are_ the fall. You are the distance between the beginning and the end. The fear of the drop. The uncertainty of outcomes. The struggle of life. The finality of death. The vulnerability. The helplessness. Denial Acceptance Rage Hope—

You are everything all at once.

Not bound to the ties of any world, some would call it freedom. But after that initial push off, that first lurch into the all consuming black, Cyan felt no relief of escape. Weightlessness a burden to bear. Nothing to hold on to. Nothing to hold any authority of control. No, nothing is grounded here. You squirm as your own command of being, left to flail in your own powerlessness.

Cyan’s HUD alerts her of a rising heartrate. She grinds her jaw in reply.

Keeping her focus locked on _The Skeld_ feels like a losing battle, but it’s all she can to stave off the dark thoughts desiring to gain a foot hold in her mind. Only sparing fleeting glances at her immediate surroundings. Aware of every breath and micro movement. One hand looped at the wrist with one of the life support’s straps. The other wound firmly around the precision key of her multitool. Having to jam the slim point into a slot to release the bursts of air they need.

She tries to conserve as much as possible. Zero air resistance means no drag. Their combined mass not an issue in their weightless state either. So she enables the contraption sparingly, only for an extra kick in jumps or when correcting their trajectory. Trusting momentum to carry them for most of the way.

Her ugly humor had reared its head. _Wouldn’t it be funny?_ she had thought. That an awkward twitch of the hand would be all it’d take for each of them to be a corpse of a satellite. Her lips pulling into a dry lift. But when not moments later, having the tool slip slightly out of her grasp. Well. Cyan wasn’t smiling anymore after that.

Three pairs of feet connect onto an unrecognizable chunk of wreck, and the trio rockets off in another haphazard twirl. Cyan grunts. A predicted _eep!_ is made to her left.

Pink clutches to her arm like a weather beaten castaway, a quiet series of sniffles trickling in through Cyan’s headset. And oh, the irony. That Pink clings as if drawing strength from Cyan. Like she has any to give in the first place. The contraption in her hands is already an ordeal and a half to control, and to contend with the starfish on her left and the hooked fish on her right? Not the most ideal situation for freeness of movement. But she sucks it up and makes do. There is a need, and unfortunately, she already had her time to cry. Now she has to be their strength—that grounding gravity—if only to keep morale. To be the one to step up when no one else could. Cause that’s what she would want. That’s what Brown did for her. So she will try. For them.

“We’ve never been to space before.” A hoarse utterance, the tremble clear in the words.

“Easy...” Cyan murmurs, but the caution lies on deaf ears.

“I-I thought it would be great--” _sniff_ “--the next big thrill y’know?” Pink is quiet for a moment, like she’s lost in some distant memory.

_No,_ Cyan wants to say. She doesn’t know. Sue her, but she can’t find anything _thrilling_ about their current predicament. A cute dog. Now _that_ is thrilling. Hexahounds? She’d kill for droopy eyes and big, floppy ears. Is it so hard for people to like simple things?

“ _‘It’s the duty of mankind to expand our horizons!’_ ” Pink chuckles, a scratchy record of a sound. “We just had a bucket list to scratch off. S-signed up. Did deckhand training. Got the job.”

Cyan understands the need to hear your own voice. Like in the shuttle, how she had welcomed any distraction to her mounting nerves. Even so, every breath counts now. She had told Pink as much. Cyan wishes she listened.

“That’s the last one. Isn’t it.” 

Pink wounds her arm impossibly closer.

“It looks so close. How…h-how much longer do you think we have?”

Until what? The support runs out of O2? They do? Or how about the absolute cooling of all existing matter, culminating into the cessation of all forms of life? _Is that even still a thing?_ Cyan gives herself a mental kick, withholding a deep inhale. How should she know, anyway. Her brain teeters between ‘Not thinking about it’ and ‘Definitely not thinking about it’ at present. She already rescheduled her mental breakdown, thanks, so they get there when they get there. And if— no, when. When they make it, the only thing left to do is getting in. Which…she’s working on it. She’s a crash survivor. In space. She’s had a rough day.

Cyan sets her sights on their last platform, what seems to be a corner of fuselage. It _is_ the last one. She supposes it belonged to a rear at seeing an engine connected on the underside. Whatever is left of it anyway. The sizeable remnant is a cross section, the insides exposed at the vertical, an empty stage of exposed circuitry and a handful of seats. Seats bare of occupancy.

The thought is silently tucked away.

Theoretically, they can make it from there. Cyan sure that they saved enough for the straight shot. She’d just have to keep them from spiraling off into oblivion. Simple. A piece of the metaphorical cake.

Cyan hopes she’s emulating at least some form of calm. Pink seems content to clutch on into eternity. But the loose hook of arms on her right doesn’t spell the best for her other crewmate. Brown is silent through the comms. And while Cyan praises him for it, she knows the mind can be a dangerous thing when left on its own, antsy to know where his train leads to. Home? Family? Regrets? What occupies a man met with the presence of their prospective grave. Before, he seemed so composed with the reality of death. The inevitability. She chews on this line of musing, that maybe everything is finally sinking in for him, mind grappling to comprehend the entirety. But then Cyan’s aware of something slipping from her side.

An arm to be precise, her resident starfish dislodging a pit too forcefully. Pushing her. _Pushing_ her. Cyan bites her tongue at the curse on the tip of her lips. Correcting their course. Just barely managing to keep the key in her hand and stopping them from spinning out. Cyan clenches her jaw, refusing to look back. Not trusting herself to keep a tight lip if she does. _At least someone’s feeling more comfortable,_ _hm?_

But then. A yank. A yank that has her visor connecting with the back of a hard shell of pink. Cyan squeezing her eyes shut on impact out of instinct. Temper ready to blow at the first sign of fuchsia hues. Only to wrench them open at a hand at her wrist. The same that has a hold on the stolen life support.

Pink’s free arm points frantically below them.

“Yellow…”

Cyan doesn’t need the alert to know her blood pressure spikes.

“YELLOW!”

A bright splash of sunshine dangling in the void. Foot caught in the naked wires of a derelict piece of debris. Yellow’s sun shield is down. And the glare of light reflecting off makes something terribly clear. A crack from top to middle. A portion of it missing.

Cyan’s momentarily loss for words. An uncomfortable emotion crossing trepidation. And it’s all the delay Pink needs to yank the strap from her wrist. A force that if bare skin, would’ve left a nasty mark. Pink catches the key before it gets too far, jamming hard at the tank.

_No no no no no—!_

“Pink _NO!_ ”

They don’t have time for this. They DO NOT have time for this! All pretense of calm drains from Cyan. Shaking Brown off as she sets both arms to wrestle with Pink. Tumbling over each other. Jetting in short, quick zigzags. Pushing. Thrashing. Wasting precious energy and time. Exertion draining away at her reserves second by second. It’s a sloppy excuse for a fight. And Pink is relentless.

“ _Pink._ Pink let go. We’ll--” _Hit_ “--come back--” _thump_ “--for him!”

Another zip. And they tumble into the deck of the fuselage. Somehow making it there amongst the chaos. And then Cyan feels it. An arm snaking around her abdomen. Reeling her back till she’s brought hard up short against a chest. Enough to knock the wind out of her. Another hand firmly on the tank’s strap in place of hers. And Brown spares no hesitation. A flash of a leg. Lifeline between Cyan and Pink snapping at the link. Pink slamming into the remaining wall of the rear. Force of it rolling the wreck gently on its axis.

The wheezing filters through first. Then hacking.

Cyan can’t see Pink’s face. Still trying to catch her own breath. Hands splayed on her chest. But when Pink turns enough, Cyan sees the extent of damage done. Red. Pink’s visor simply a splatter of red. Pink mimes at clutching her throat, helmet preventing the real action. Floating in her own agony.

Cyan simply stares. Dazed. A slight part of her mouth.

Stares as Brown lets go of her, then a seat. No sooner taking off into the black. Cyan pulled along like a rag doll. Stares as two bodies shrink farther and farther away.

She hears the sputtering. The pleading. Strangled words an indistinct clutter of syllables.

Cyan swallows the taste of something sour on her tongue.

Numb fingers mute the transmission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if anything was hard to visualize, action is a chore to write. I think it came out ok though? I hope. Also I'm hankering for some Cyan/Brown interactions as well as some other things, so hoping to get some foundation down next. I keep getting bit by plot bunnies. And they have teeth. Help. Lol anyways thanks for reading as always o/


	6. Fata Morgana (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *snoring*...gah -- ah! I'm awake I swear! see here's chap 6!

She idles in the presence of a behemoth.

A drifter at the end of a journey. Dull embers of hope having been the only sustaining course of path. A journey it seemed, lasting an eternity. And on the cusp of the end, freedom quite plainly close enough to touch, Cyan is frozen to the moment, as if her brain struggles with the comprehension of where she is. What she actually accomplished. Every emotion haphazardly boxed and stashed away for sanity’s sake. Wallows of self-pity. Fear. Blanches of overwhelming dread. But now, now she should be bursting at the seams! Overflowing. The object of her plights right in front of her and yet.

Cyan feels as listless and wandering as the spaceship before her.

There is no high of accomplishment. No savoring the fruit of her labors. To bask in the success of a pipe dream. A simple sigh of relief would be more than appropriate. But these, they do not find her. What does, are thick dual doors of plasti-steel, seven by seven feet, an air tight seal spanning the length where the two meet, mechanism effectively locked. A million thoughts trip into another in Cyan’s mind, yet at the same time, nothing at all. The metal stares back in its solidity.

Somehow, against all odds, she’s still alive and kicking. _But not for long._ At the metaphorical bridge. And Cyan with no idea how to cross it.

Brown has a hold on a groove of the dock when he faces her. Cyan grunting as he shoves the spent life support into her chest. The line connecting them going taut, before slackening as the link holds.

_Not for Pink._

_It didn’t for Pink._

Cyan clutches it to her chest, a sharp inhale following the familiar ache of discomfort from where she was crushed against Brown’s chest. The pair are only two arm lengths apart. Aquamarine watching caramel. Caramel watching aquamarine.

Brown cocks his head to the side, zeroed in on Cyan like… like those glinting eyes amidst the shadows you weren’t supposed to see.

The chill licks across her skin again. Shiver coming without warning at this feeling— this aura that accompanies this man. _This man…_ Cyan trails off, grasping at the ridiculous epiphany. Something that needed no forethought, really: This man is alien to her. As alien as the resident stars and galaxies. As alien as this chaotic realm they inhabit. No, Cyan does not know him. A name, sure. But past that— whatever she saw at the terminal was never this. And whatever bond she cooked up up here. Whatever friendliness. Preconceived notions she had on his personality. It all gnaws at her. Like misplaced trust. Misplaced amity. And Cyan doesn’t know if she should be in awe or cowed at her own imprudence.

Funny. From the very start she signed off on that contract, it was always imprudence.

She’s ever aware of the ‘long sleep’. That any breath could be her last now. The single blinking bar on her HUD that she’s hit her reserves speaks louder than words ever could. But maybe a part of her has already given up. Idling in inaction. Caught between the now and the way back when. Lazy noontimes, rocking back and forth in the nook of an old tire swing, gangly limbs of a preteen fitting snuggly in the worn rubber. Head rested on the rim, she’d watch him, leant against the tree, one of his dogs sprawled across his lap. He’d scritch at a floppy ear, humming an off-key tune of some old band Cyan didn’t care much for. She had worked so hard to get to this point with him. Still had a ways to go to solidify any type of a bond. But this was the first person that standed her. Could truly see her. And she’d be lying to herself then to say the feeling wasn’t nigh intoxicating.

 _“Whatcha doin’ ?”_ she asked one time, blinking sleepily at him.

He had cracked an eye. His good eye. Replying in a similar smooth drawl. _“Livin’ kid. Just livin’.”_

The first person… and she left him. No matter how much she could talk herself blue who she’s really here for. She left him.

Cyan slings the support over an arm, before gripping the line between, bringing her closer against the inner voice screaming not to, helmets a breath apart, bodies swaying gently in suspension. Cyan feels like she’s slipping. So, so out of her element. If she stayed. If she had just _stayed_. But ah, it doesn’t matter anymore does it. Playing her own violin, what’s her one stupid solo compared to all the others, right? Maybe that’s the punchline in the grand scheme of things. That there never was one. And this man. The conversation should and can wait. They don’t have much longer. But hypoxia caresses her senses.

“You didn’t need to do that.” Cyan breathes out, a multitude of emotions bleeding into the one sentence.

“Do…” Brown’s parrots in monotone. “What does Cyan one mean.”

“Pink.”

“Pink one was not conducive to continued survival.”

“So you _kick_ her? She was kissing her own blood when we left! I could’ve let her loose. Cut the line. I could’ve--.”

“Cyan one did not have the situation under control.” A slight frown. “If Pink one is not weak, she will not die if you wish to collect her.”

Cyan blinks, incredulous.

“You disagree.”

“ _Yes_.” Cyan hisses. Violent choking echoes in her ears like a bad re-run. Red splatter coats her vision.

Brown inches forward, helmet knocking gently against Cyan’s.

“We are here. Is that not what matters.”

“We left her to die.” _To die alone._

“Pink one left herself to die by her own actions. Lime one left himself to die by his own vulnerability.”

Cyan eyes him like he’s grown a second head. “That isn’t—”

“It is the same.”

Cyan grips at a shoulder to put space between them. But Brown simply wraps an arm around her instead.

“Curious,” caramel darts sporadically across Cyan’s face. “You are conflicted about your species. To justify… A ‘wrong’ and a ‘right’. The same was done, yet I am more ‘wrong’.” Brown settles on wide eyes. “Cyan one, there are opportunities to choose to make use of or not. To eat now,” a hand drags down her back, “or not. That is all.”

“Let go...”

“ _Others_ are strange.”

“Let _go._ ”

“The Death disturbs you. Survival disturbs you.”

“Brown let go or _so help me—_ ”

Her body struggles against his. Wriggling. Trying to shove. But Brown doesn’t seem to notice.

“Like this. Squirming. This is your existence.”

Or if he does, doesn’t care. Recycled air bites at her lungs. But Cyan swears. Swears she’s not hallucinating how his pupils seem to pulse. Growing larger with each contraction. Blacker. Carmel getting eaten away by the hole as he presses Cyan’s body impossibly closer. Legs locking her’s into stillness. His visor scraping against hers.

“You really… do not bel ** _oNg.”_**

_SMACK!_

The silence of space takes no potency away from the impact. Lime’s support floats in place of her.

Cyan rubs desperately at her arms. The feeling of violation running like ants through her veins. She refuses to acknowledge the other’s presence. Refuses to acknowledge his words having any affect whatsoever. Staring down into the cold, immaterial void. _‘What an amusing man’_ , she had said. _‘Amusing…_ ’ There is something funny about the man alright.

But Cyan’s not laughing.

A shaky hand raises to the side of her helmet. Changing radio frequency to all open channels, ready to receive any stray signal. One. That’s all she asks. Just one. If Cyan double checks that an ID in particular stays muted… who is anyone to accuse her.

She’s met by the dead air of radio static. The hiss and crackle weighs heavy in the small space of the helmet. Cyan moves pass the tightness in her throat.

“ _U…UAA 2-7-0-4_ requesting…”

She doesn’t even know what she’s doing. Spacesuit comms are only good for shortwave transmission. No way on Tethys IX’s Seven Great Craters that Control can hear her, much less a passing Samaritan.

And just like that, it’s over.

Her HUD glares red. Like a flick of a switch, whatever Cyan had left keeping her going flickering out. Her life support on its last. A staccato beeping accompanying system failure.

. . .

It makes no effort to move. Head remaining twisted in place at a ninety degree angle. Sounds of expiration filtering in through its ears. Eyes following along the hairline fracture that had spider-webbed at a corner of its visor.

It stays like this. Waiting. Motive unclear, perhaps, even to itself. _Other_ is getting quiet. Not long before the sounds are dying down.

And then.

Nothing.

Lifeless caramel swivel to rest on the unmoving form.

Its anchored arm twitches. Gloved hand letting go, before inching along smooth metal like an infirmed spider. Fabric seeming to squish and bond onto the surface like glue. Sticking and unsticking until Brown is positioned properly at the dock’s center. Fingers finding a slim opening that was not previously present. It pauses at this, still positioned at the awkward angle, before settling on some contemplation.

Brown’s head, helmet and all, splits open.

A meaty appendage glistening as it emerges out of the crimson, fleshy mess. Snaking out in want of one thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School, work, and everything in between. Sigh... But hey, you make do. Hope the new year has found everyone well, regardless of it being just another day. And if not, that it will. Ty for reading and hope you liked the chapter. I really do appreciate all the interest ;(


End file.
